


Three Years Later

by FlyingPigMonkey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingPigMonkey/pseuds/FlyingPigMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was three years ago today Sherlock died. Three years and Mycroft never let me be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Grab Bag Challenge on Tumblr by JohnlockChallenges

"He's alive John."

It was three years ago today that Sherlock made me watch him take a swan dive off of the roof of Saint Bart's. Three years ago that the new life I had forged for myself after the war was ripped from my grasp and torn to pieces with no hope of repair. Another bout of depression, the limp in my right leg returning with a vengeance, the end of every relationship that ever tied me to his memory; at least, almost every. 

Three years and Mycroft still never let me be. Bugs and cameras have been planted in the flat intermittently, but I'd like to think I have gotten pretty good at spotting them. Where ever I go, men in black suits driving black cars follow me and the CCTV track my every turn. It took me a year to realize that every delivery man I've called over and every handy man Mrs. Hudson has hired were some of Mycroft's men. There have even been a couple times where I thought someone had gone through my things, but nothing was ever taken. 

However, for all his tracking and invasion of privacy, I hadn't seen the Ice Man himself since Sherlock's funeral. I was thankful for that. I had said all I wanted to say at the Diogenes Club, seeing him again would only infuriate me and end in me saying some things I may later regret. 

That's why I almost didn't get in when a black town car drove up beside me on my way home from the market. 

But I did get in, sliding into the seat next to Anthea as she typed away at her BlackBerry. After a few minutes I worked up the nerve to turn to her, my hands gripping the handle of my cane. "Why now? What could he possibly want from me?" 

She glanced up briefly, saying "Something has come up," before getting back to work. 

As the car drove along a very familiar route, I let my thoughts drift to the last time I was in one of Mycroft's cars. My first trip to the Diogenes Club, to the first time the man showed any real concern about his brother. Of course Sherlock was what we always talked about, it before it had always felt more obligatory. Like we were supposed to talk about him so there wasn't really any emotion in the topic, for either of us. But in the back office of the club, Mycroft was legitimately worried about Sherlock. I think it was as close to begging for help the government official had ever gotten. And then I failed him, both of them. I shook my head, fighting back those depressing unproductive thoughts that like to sneak themselves back into my brain at inconvenient times. 

Looking back out the window, I realized we were already deep in the industrial district. Old factories and abandoned buildings flew past my window as I tried to come up with some reasonable explanation for why Mycroft would need to see me _now._

Soon we pulled up a cobblestone driveway that led to one of the older buildings on the block. Missing large sections of its roof and most of the glass in its windows, the decrypted brick building was much smaller than most of the others standing only two stories tall and only about 50 meters long. _Office building of some sort._ The car stopped and the driver opened the door for me, Anthea climbing out behind me. I hardly noticed; my eyes were searching the windows, hoping perhaps to see something. See what, I cannot say. I just could not shake the need to look. 

"This way, Mr. Watson." Her voice jolted me, drawing my attention back to the office assistant now standing a couple feet away with her full attention on me. Never had she fully looked at me before and it was a bit unnerving, but as soon as I made to follow she set her face back to her phone screen, not needing to watch were she was going. 

In to the building and up a set of stairs, down a hallway of what looked like offices. Giant wooden desks, broken chairs, and rotting bookcases littered the rooms long forgotten. The air was heavy with mold and damp from the nearby river. She lead me to the end of the hall to what appeared to have once been a board room, the man in question waiting in the center of the large space. Leaning on his ever present umbrella in his crisp suit, his face looking more strained that I think I had ever seen it. _This can't be good._

A moment of silence stretched between us as the clicks of Anthea's heels disappeared down the hall. Neither of us moved, neither of us made a noise, I'm not so sure either of us were even breathing. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me. 

"Well, what do you want? You summoned me all the bloody way out here for something." 

He blinked a couple times, standing up straight before clearing his throat. "Yes, we can get to that in a moment." Slowly he started walking around the room, his eyes never leaving mine, "How have you been, John?" 

I snorted, responding, "You know how I've been. We both know how closely you've been watching me. I can't go to the market or order Chinese without one of your men reporting it to you, now tell me why I'm here." If he kept this up I wasn't so sure I would be able to keep my temper in check long enough to find out. 

Mycroft sighed quietly, "Well then, let's get to it, shall we?" 

I didn't quite hear what he said next. Or rather, I heard it but must have been sorely sorely mistaken given the stress of seeing Mycroft was putting on my still fragile brain. "Wait, what?" 

"He's alive John. Sherlock faked his death so he could go undercover and tare down Moriarty's empire without the risk of Moriarty's men coming after those he cares about. Sherlock-" 

"No, don't you dare Mycroft!" My fists clenched as I charged at Mycroft, but I held short of actually hitting him. He flinched slightly as my voice rose near shouting, "I watched him jump! I WATCHED! I felt for his pulse and he didn't one! I may have believed you three years ago, but if he really were still alive I would have known by now!" 

I could hear the footsteps of one of Mycroft's body guards coming down the hall, but I refused to turn away from Mycroft just yet. "John please just listen-" 

"There is nothing you could ever say to me to make me believe that I didn't stand by and watch my best friend kill himself!" 

"Is there anything I could say that you would believe?" 

My eyes grew wide and my jaw went slack, my next rant falling mute. That voice. That was his voice. _It's impossible._ Slowly I turned around, only to find the man in question standing in the doorway. Blonde hair cropped short, a few more lines around his bright eyes, same long jacket he used to wear. 

I couldn't breathe properly, my throat constricting as I tried to believe my eyes. _This can't be real. He can't be real._

"John?" Sherlock came into the room, taking several steps towards me. My feet started moving on their own as they matched his steps until he stood at arms length from me. I reached my arm out, taking his hand in mine, softly running my fingers over his skin. _Oh God, he is real!_

I closed the gap between us, crashing our lips together and circling my arms around his thin waist. He brought his hands to my hair, rubbing his thumbs along my cheeks as his tongue ran along my bottom lip. But instead of letting it make its way in I pushed him away and stepped back, a million thoughts running through my mind. _He left you behind. Just days after we became honest with our feelings for each other, he pretends to kill himself then goes on a three year killing spree without me._

"John?" His brows frowned with concern and his eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce what was going through my head. But he must have been out of practice; he never saw it coming. 

I clenched my fist once more and drove it into the left side of his face. 


End file.
